They drove on silently.  Mildred took keen notice of every detail of Grace’s dress—­the blue cloth gown and jacket, simple but modish, with an air no Highland dressmaker could achieve, for who on earth out of Paris can make anything so perfect as a Paris gown, in which a pretty girl is sure to look like a dream?  The little toque on the small head was perched over braids of smooth brown hair, the gloves and boots were well-fitting, and Grace Wainwright carried herself finely.  This was a girl who could walk ten miles on a stretch, ride a wheel or a horse at pleasure, drive, play tennis or golf, or do whatever else a girl of the period can.  She was both strong and lovely, one saw that.

What could she do besides?  Mildred, with the reins lying loosely over old Whitefoot’s back, thought and wondered.  There was opportunity for much at the Brae.

Lawrence and Grace chatted eagerly as the old pony climbed hills and descended valleys, till at last he paused at a rise in the path, then went on, and there, the ground dipping down like the sides of a cup, in the hollow at the bottom lay the straggling village.

“Yes,” said Grace, “I remember it all.  There is the post-office, and Doremus’ store, and the little inn, the church with the white spire, the school-house, and the Manse.  Drive faster, please, Mildred.  I want to see my mother.  Just around that fir grove should be the old home of Wishing-Brae.”

Tears filled Grace’s eyes.  Her heart beat fast.

The Wainwrights’ house stood at the end of a long willow-bordered lane.  As the manse carryall turned into this from the road a shout was heard from the house.  Presently a rush of children tearing toward the carriage, and a chorus of “Hurrah, here is Grace!” announced the delight of the younger ones at meeting their sister.  Mildred drew up at the doorstep, Lawrence helped Grace out, and a fair-haired older sister kissed her and led her to the mother sitting by the window in a great wheeled chair.

The Raeburns hurried away.  As they turned out of the lane they met Mr. Burden with his cart piled high with Grace’s trunks.

“Where shall my boxes be carried, sister?” said Grace, a few minutes later.  She was sitting softly stroking her mother’s thin white hand, the mother gazing with pride and joy into the beautiful blooming face of her stranger girl, who had left her a child.

“My middle girl, my precious middle daughter,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.  “Miriam, Grace, and Eva, now I have you all about me, my three girls.  I am a happy woman, Gracie.”

“Hallo!” came up the stairs; “Burden’s waiting to be paid.  He says it’s a dollar and a quarter.  Who’s got the money?  There never is any money in this house.”

“Hush, Robbie!” cried Miriam, looking over the railing.  “The trunks will have to be brought right up here, of course.  Set them into our room, and after they are unpacked we’ll put them into the garret.  Mother, is there any change in your pocketbook?”